Maud. Help, murder, help!
You will not rob me, outlaw? thief, restore
My belt that ye have broken !

Rob. Yes, come near.
Maud. Not in your gripe.

Rob. Was this the charmed circle,
The copy that so cozened and deceived us?
I'll carry hence the trophy of your spoils :
My men shall hunt you too upon the start,
And course you soundly.

Maud. I shall make them sport,
And send some home without their legs or arms.
I'll teach them to climb stiles, leap ditches, ponds,
And lie in the waters, if they follow me.
Rob. Out, murmuring hag.

[Exeunt all but MAUD.
Maud. I must use all my powers,
Lay all my wits to piecing of this loss.
Things run unluckily : where's my Puck-Hairy?
Hath he forsook me?

Enter PUCK-HAIRY.

Puck. At your beck, madam.
Maud. O Puck, my goblin ! I have lost my belt,
The strong thief, Robin Outlaw, forced it from me.

Puck. They are other clouds and blacker threat you, dame;
You must be wary, and pull in your sails,
And yield unto the weather of the tempest.
You think your power's infinite as your malice,
And would do all your anger prompts you to ;
But you must wait occasions, and obey them :
Sail in an egg-shell, make a straw your mast,
A cobweb all your cloth, and pass unseen,
Till you have 'scaped the rocks that are about you.

Maud. What rocks about me ?

Puck. I do love, madam,
To show you all your dangers,—when you're past them!
Come, follow me, l' ll once more be your pilot,
And you shall thank me.

[Exit. Maud. Lucky, my loved goblin !

[As she is going out, LOREL meets her. Where are you going now?

Lor. Unto my tree,
To see my mistress.

Maud. Gang thy gait, and try
Thy turns with better luck, or hang thysel-

POEMS.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM SHAKE-

BEN JONSON'S ODE TO HIMSELF UPON THE CENSURE OF HIS

"NEW INN"

313

Poems.

SONG TO CELIA.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,

Doth ask a drink divine :
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope, that there

It could not wither'd be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me :
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS.

SEE the chariot at hand here of Love,

Wherein my Lady rideth !
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty

Unto her beauty ; And enamour'd, do wish, so they might

But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.